Quote

Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Green
Cockroach
Father
Genitals
Cockroaches
Frog
Frogs
Bags
Nerves
Malformed
Soft
Doorknob

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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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